It seems strange, when people say, "Glad you're okay." I guess I say it all the time too--you know, when people write things about how they were in minor fender-benders.
It's nice to remind people--it might not make them feel better, or maybe it does--but it definitely makes the person saying it feel better. I still think of you, it says, even if we don't talk much or I'm far away.
In other words, when I say it, I don't do so because I worry that the incident in question posed an actual threat to their lives. At least, not so much as all the other things that could go wrong in life (and death) could pose a threat. "Well, I survived being mugged, only to have a piano fall on my head," the ghost said balefully.
I'm just so aware now of all the things that could happen. "I'm glad you're alright." It lets them know--in case something unforeseeable goes wrong--that I'm thinking of them.
I took my car in to the garage I found in my first month here. The guy seems nice, comes across as honest. He reminds me, truthfully, of my own mechanic back in Alexandria.
"Car made friends with a concrete post," I say. "Cop said it was the post's fault."
Step one, get the mechanic to grin, feel comfortable around you. A stranger is much less likely to screw around with your money if you're likable. Using "y'all" may help in certain circumstances, too, I've found. I can slip right into a Blacksburg accent if need be, or even a South Cackalacky. Appalachia and the South seem to make some people feel more comfortable, even grammar-nazi asses like myself who count linguistic errors among their pet peeves.
"We don't do body work," he disclaims.
"Oh, that's fine," say I. I can't afford body work.
Later I get a phone call. Bent a strut, need to get body work done. A couple years ago I broke a strut on ice, going perhaps fifteen miles an hour down the hill I grew up on. I think it cost around a thousand dollars to fix on that Oldsmobile. My father never really believed that I was only going fifteen, either, especially after I told him I had friends in the car with me.
Well, this time I was only going five, and the strut's bent. The mechanic recommended bringing in the insurance company, said it would be expensive to fix on my own. The body shop I called said it'd most likely be possible to fix for under $200, though.
That's good. We've had this car since my mom became a single mom. She and Marsha gave it to me in March, after nearly five Blacksburg years sans car.
Made out in the backseat of that car in high school, I did. Said hello--and goodbye--to Heidi in that car when she visited from California. I don't know how I would've survived April without having access to wheels, but more importantly, it took me and Max to and from our last date.
I remember very clearly how beautiful she looked sitting in that passenger seat.
"Do you think I should wear this tie instead?" I asked.
"You look great in that one," I think she said, of the one I was already wearing. I grinned and threw it in the back seat of the car.
It's strange how much importance we place on property. "It's just a car!" I want to shout. But it's not just a car; it's a memory trigger, a cognitive device. When you give up your possessions and become an ascetic monk, you don't just give up your possessions--you give up your past life.
Now, money--that I'm willing to part with, as long as I can put food on the table every day. Thank you, please fix it, I don't care what it costs or even if I never drive it, or even if it looks ugly. Thank you.
